


We Were Never Here

by phlox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, HP: EWE, Partnership, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-02
Updated: 2011-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phlox/pseuds/phlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A million little things draw people together and push them apart. Nothing is insignificant, nothing inevitable. Can Draco and Hermione find their way back by the path that led them there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
>  **Beta Readers:** twist, prior to the dmhgficexchange, then a super-human re-beta by eucalyptus, which whipped this story into shape. A humble thank you to them both!
> 
> Title comes from the lyrics of “Skinny Love” by Bon Iver, the song submitted with the prompt. My recipient dropped-out, so this was presented to the pinch-hitters instead. The prompt from which I wrote will be posted at the very end.

**NOVEMBER 2000**

Her head fell back against the wall with a thump. She reached for him, blindly fisting the collar of his shirt, her arm flung around his neck. As he moved in close against her, she got her first full breath of him. Greedy for it, she pushed her face into his neck and inhaled.

He gripped her thighs, tugging, digging his fingers in, and she wrapped her legs tight around him. Lifted higher in his arms with a heave, her head bounced hard against the wall. A slightly hysterical giggle bubbled up and out of her as she thought, _oh, that’s going to leave a mark_.

A button from his shirt went flying with a yank. Her hand dove under the fabric, smoothing up his collarbone and into his warmth. She watched him as he ran his fingers under the elastic of her knickers, pulling them to the side. This moment was her favorite; the instant he felt her for the first time and knew how ready she was for him. His expression was always a mixture of so many things; pleased, aroused, devious, awed, and more than a little smug.

It was like everything Draco. It was everything Hermione loved, everything she’d missed.

Her breath caught as he positioned himself and slid into her. He looked up to her from under heavy lids, something indiscernible joining the mix in his expression. Time seemed to stop in the gray of his eyes as he readjusted, then pushed in to the hilt. Her head fell back again with a thunk, and her gasp turned into another breathy laugh.

“What’s funny?” he whispered roughly, biting down hard on her earlobe.

She shook her head, her breath coming harder and faster then as he started to move. She’d never understood how Draco expected her to be able to hold a conversation during sex. As his own laugh huffed against her cheek, she realized rendering her speechless was probably the point.

She wondered suddenly where they were, though she didn’t really care. There was never room for conscious thought with him. After his first kiss, it was always a blur of stumbling, touching, and disrobing until he filled her. She would be lost, untethered, until he found her and anchored her to a world that was only him.

His hands on her arse, he rocked her against him with short strokes. He was tender, always, at first. Her head lolled as she rolled it up from the wall. Pushing her chin into his head, she dislodged him from where he’d buried himself against her neck.

He pulled back and met her look, and he was... so beautiful. Sweat about his hairline, cheeks flushed, he had that rare, open expression on his face. His eyes shuttered slightly, and he moved to press his forehead to the other side, to hide himself again.

Hermione wouldn’t have it. Dragging her hands from his shoulders to grasp his jaw, she held him in place. She wanted to _see_ him as well as she could feel him. She wanted it all, as usual, and she could never figure if he couldn’t give it to her, or if he simply _wouldn’t_.

His brows furrowed as he looked up to her hair. Rhythm faltering momentarily, he fumbled to free his right hand and bring it up to her head. Muttering unintelligibly, he plucked at the combs and pins holding her hair in an updo.

In short work, her curls were freed and falling to her shoulders. Draco’s eyes darkened, and a thrill shot through her. She loved him like this; wanting her, needing her, desperate for her. No mask of his could ever hide _this_ from her.

His hand dove into her hair. He palmed her scalp and made a fist, yanking her head sideways as he captured her lips with his. He swallowed whole the moan that fought its way out from deep inside her. Hermione had never found the words to confess how much she liked when he took control so completely, but she suspected he knew.

Dragging his hand from her arse down her thigh to grip and yank, he pushed impossibly closer, pressing her hard up against the wall. His thrusts then became rough and urgent. Held fast between Draco and the wall, she took the brunt of each plunge in and out. It felt like he was trying to force his whole self into her, head to toe; to burst through her ribcage and crush her heart.

That heart of hers was suddenly fit to burst, trying to hold on to herself, to Draco, to this fleeting experience. She bit his jaw, running her teeth up the solid muscle that ran down the side of his neck to his shoulder, committing the earth-and-salt sweetness of him to memory.

God, she loved the taste of him, the smell and the feel of him. Hermione knew about chemicals, knew about pheromones and the biology of attraction, but it still felt like magic. It still felt to her as though all other men in the world were some foreign substance that disagreed with her.

There was a very nice man from International Magical Cooperation who had bought her a very nice dinner last week and had placed what should have been a very nice kiss on her lips at her front door. It had tasted bitter and wrong and had left her with a feeling of dread deep in her stomach. It had been the same with Ron and with that funny Muggle boy the summer before sixth year. She hadn’t known the taste of Draco then, though, and had just thought something must be wrong with her.

Well, now Hermione _knew_ there was something wrong. As she drank from his mouth like he was a full meal after a week’s fast, she could only hope it wasn’t pathological.

Hermione supposed she would have to analyze what this all meant, for her and for them, but she’d have to think about it later. Later, when there wasn’t that brilliant feeling building inside her. Later, when his arms weren’t tightened around her and his urgent moans weren’t filling her ears. Later, when Draco and his scent and all the emotions that came with him were far away from her.

The world went blurry around the edges then and she exploded. Draco swallowed her scream, ever the one to be most aware of their surroundings at times like these, forever conscious of the world outside the cupboard door. Hermione gave herself over to it, held safely in Draco’s arms, only vaguely aware of his kisses growing sloppy and his hips erratic until she breathed in his own groaning finish.

They were still for several moments before his slipping hold jostled her. She had a brief moment of panic where she thought she might tumble to the ground, but then his balance tipped sharply forward to brace himself against the wall. His forehead hit her collar bone as he slumped against her.

She came back to reality slowly, aided by the huff of Draco’s breath at her breast and the slickness of his skin under her fingertips. Looking about, she remembered, _oh, right – they were in the storage cupboard_. Why on earth would the Ministry need this many paper clips on hand in any one place?

It was only a moment before Draco straightened. He watched himself slide out of her and stepped back, grabbing one of her elbows to steady her as her feet returned shakily to the floor. The moment more awkward than they’d experienced, Hermione scanned the room for her shoes while he buttoned his trousers. When she turned back to him, he was giving her a steady look.

Raking his fingers through his hair, he pushed the damp strands back from his forehead. With a gentle smirk, he said, “Well, that wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

Taken aback, she said, “That was never a problem, Draco.” Inexplicably and absurdly, considering the situation, she blushed. “That always... worked between us just fine.” She buttoned up her blouse. Spotting a high-heeled Mary Jane on top of one of the many reams of parchment stacked against the wall, she headed for it.

“Come now, I distinctly recall some complaints.” He tried for a flippant tone, but it was undermined by his emphasis on the last word.

Hermione sighed. She was feeling too good, and she wasn’t ready for that to fade yet. She saw her other shoe behind Draco’s foot and reached around him as he stood stiffly watching her. Grabbing hold of his arm to steady herself, she put them on each foot and straightened in front of him.

“Then you weren’t really listening,” she said softly. She studied him to see if he trusted her sincerity, but the shutters had come down, and his expression was closed once more. Swallowing her disappointment, she summoned what pins and combs she could. She had begun to repair her updo when his hand closed over her own.

“Leave it down.” His voice was rough. He cleared his throat and seemed to push the rest out. “I... It’s nice like that.”

He missed her incredulous look as he pulled on his jacket and reached for the door. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I won’t be consulting with the department anymore. I was accepted into Gringotts’ curse-breaker internship. I start next week.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped, and she listened dumbly.

To her shocked silence, he shrugged and admitted, “I submitted to their branch in France under a pseudonym. I was able to get my foot in the door.” He spoke casually, but he couldn’t hide the flush of his cheeks. “So, I was just dropping off the paperwork with Nelson. I’ll be out of the country for a while and then... I won’t be back here.”

“Oh. You’d said... Right.” God, she sounded like an idiot. She took a breath. “So, that’s great, Draco. I’m— You should be really proud of yourself.”

He nodded. Looking down at his hand gripping the doorknob, he pulled open the door. She jumped out of the beam of light that afforded a clear view to anyone in the hallway. But as Draco turned, standing in plain sight to all who happened by the storage cupboard in the fourth corridor on Level Two, her rebuke caught in her throat.

“So, tell me again, Hermione... what didn’t work, then? Between us, I mean.”

She was pretty sure her heart stopped as he glanced back at her. She opened and closed her mouth, little squeaks escaping over exhales as she tried for words she couldn’t conjure. There were answers to this question; she’d slept and eaten and lived the reasons for their breakup for months. Suddenly, though, none of it seemed _big_ enough. Being with him like this, she couldn’t for the life of her recall what issues between them had seemed so insurmountable—

Well, aside from who they were and the world around them and how they fit in it. Only _that_ , Hermione thought bitterly.

Her answer was wholly unequal to the moment. “Don’t you remember?”

At his surprised laugh, the comicality of the question struck Hermione as well. For a fleeting moment, the connection flared between them, and its flame warmed her to her bones.

The soft amusement in his eyes only partially covered the regret. “My mind’s a blank, Granger.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click, but it was like a gunshot against the pounding of her heart.

 

 **AUGUST 2000**

“It’s fine.”

“Stop saying that. It’s clearly _not_ fine.”

“It is if I say it is, and I’m saying it, so it’s fine.” She slammed the drawer of the filing cabinet, adjusting an armful of files that were almost more than she could hold.

Draco felt the flutter of an impulse to offer help, but it was easily suppressed. She never accepted it, anyway. The files nearly toppled out of her arms as she landed gracelessly back in her chair, rolling back slightly into the wall behind her desk, jostling the pictures hanging there. The two-year-old front page of the _The Prophet_ depicting Draco stiffly shaking hands with Potter, over and over for all eternity, tilted sharply in its frame. He would have been happy to see it fall and lodge itself behind the cabinet, never to be recovered, but it regrettably stayed put. Hermione loved that picture, and would never hear of taking it down.

He stifled his scowl and rubbed the tips of his fingers back and forth over his forehead, thumb pressing into his temple. “I didn’t mean to go over your head. In fact, I didn’t actually go over your head, so there isn’t any reason for—”

“It’s fine.”

“Bloody hell!” Draco slammed his hands down on her desk, glad that they were the only ones in her office. Granger never took lunches, so she could be counted on to be alone at this time of day. This was, of course, key information to have when you had to visit a place surreptitiously (or when you knew you’d have to prepare for a scene). “Stop it. I know how much it pains you to not have your hand in orchestrating my every move—”

“ _Orch_ estrating!” She stood, hugging the folders to her chest.

“—Asked me about the Rookwood chest, and I told him that I could probably handle it, so what’s the problem?”

“You knew how much I wanted to see the inside of that house! You deliberately—”

“No, I didn’t!” His tone stunned her to silence, her eyes wide. “Nelson decided that I was actually capable of doing something on my own, without you, and you just can’t fathom that I can accomplish anything without your help!” He took a deep breath. Draco hated losing his temper, hated telegraphing his emotions in any way, so he purposefully lowered his voice and continued, “Look, I got all the way there and inside, through the locks and to the manuscripts, and all without unleashing any Dark Lords or killing any beloved headmasters, so perhaps the boss’s faith in me wasn’t misplaced.”

Her mouth opened and closed, trying to form a response her brain couldn’t manufacture.

“Now... Nelson asked me to share copies of the runes with you for cross-referencing with—”

“I have faith in you.”

She said this so softly that Draco considered pretending he didn’t hear it. He didn’t like the look of her right now, clutching those damn files to her chest like a bloody shield.

“I’ve always... I don’t think you can’t do anything without me. I mean...” She shook her head, flustered. “I think you _can_. I never intended for you to feel like you couldn’t, or that I thought any less of you—”

“It’s fine.”

The oxygen left her lungs like a slowly deflating balloon, her eyes wide and glued to his. It seemed like at least a minute before she pulled in air again.

“Okay,” she said, finally dropping the files to her desk with a thud.

The air was too heavy for him. Though he’d needed to get that off his chest for a long time, it was not what he’d come for. “Listen, you were right about the family signature. It was built into each level of the locks.” Draco smiled as her eyes lit up; he knew not even a fight could distract Granger from academic intrigue. “Nelson says he has a few things coming up for me and I’ll still be coming to the bi-monthly meeting, so... I’ll see you around.”

Even to Draco, that sounded lame and insufficient. She let him exit on it though, and for that he was grateful.

 

 **MAY 2000**

She stood just inside the doorway of her flat, a fistful of the red satin train of her evening gown in one hand, a pair of silver three-inch-heeled slingbacks in the other. The lights were on, and Hermione knew who was there by the contents of the cardboard box sitting open on the table in her lounge. She remained frozen as Draco came through the door from the bedroom, the toothbrush in his hand to join the rest of his belongings in the box. It was a collection of the things he’d left here and there at her place over the past year; as a chronicle of their relationship, it was woefully inadequate.

Draco was unsurprised to see her. He glanced at his watch and raised an eyebrow. “Early again? I thought you’d be out late tonight, but you seem to be forming a habit of leaving early.”

Hermione dropped her shoes and shut the door. “You’re decided then.”

He looked taken aback. “ _You_ decided.”

“I _asked_. I just wanted to know what you were feeling...” She hated that her voice sounded shaky. “I can’t believe you’re doing this tonight.”

A flicker of emotion crossed his face. _Good_.

“Well, I know how you love symmetry,” he said softly.

Hermione couldn’t say that he’d been outright avoiding her in the past week, not obviously so. She had seen him at two meetings and at one bit of work with him off-site, and all of it had been handled with cool politeness and efficient retreat. Draco had been evading her in myriad ways for months though, and his long, slow exit from her space had been nearly imperceptible until little was left of him even when he was there. She was surprised that there was anything here to collect; it seemed like everything should have vanished along with him.

He cocked his head to the side, his face inscrutable. “You’re looking... fetching tonight, Granger.”

She rolled her eyes at the comment, assuming, as usual, that he was teasing. She had worn Gryffindor red, with her hair loose and curly down her back, not thinking she would see him tonight. He seemed to dislike it when she wore it down, if the way he delighted in making fun of it was any indication. But that was in such sharp contrast to the side of him that seemed to desire her almost uncontrollably. His lengthy stares and frantic need for her made her feel irresistible, and it helped to soothe most of the hurt feelings she bore from his little remarks. She couldn’t reconcile these different aspects of his nature though, and she’d stopped wanting to try.

Knowing your boyfriend wanted you wasn’t much help when it seemed like he was trying his hardest not to.

He held himself too far back from her, and she could never grasp him from where she was. Her mum had asked her once: _if you were to pull a turtle from his shell, do you really think he would thank you for it?_ People built their armor about them for a reason, and they didn’t generally appreciate those who tried to drill their way inside. There was so much he kept to himself; all the regret and the wounded pride was eating away at him from within. But Hermione was hurt too, and she couldn’t soothe his pain if she couldn’t reach it.

Crossing to the table, he dropped the brush in the box, sealing and shrinking it to carry. Not knowing what else to do with herself in this painfully ordinary moment, she looked about the room to see whether he’d got all he came for. Her eyes lit on the antique music box on the mantle and her heart clenched. It enjoyed pride of place between the picture of Harry, Ron and herself at the leaving feast first year, and the case holding her Order of Merlin, First Class. The box automatically played whatever song she wanted to hear.

“Cheer up, Granger,” he said, going to the fireplace. “It’ll be like it never happened.”

She watched as he grabbed a fistful of Floo powder, and her reverie broke as she came to a hasty decision, blurting, “Malfoy, your family’s music box. You should take it with you.”

When he turned back, his expression was shuttered. Shaking his head, he said tightly, “That was a present.”

Hermione rushed forward, reaching over his shoulder to take it from the mantle. She stood half a meter in front of him and held it out with both hands as he stood poised to leave. It seemed suddenly important that he take it with him; she didn’t feel like she should have it if they were through. “I couldn’t, Draco. You should—“

“It’s yours,” he said, simply and firmly, his eyes soft on hers.

“But... it’s so valuable. It’s too much—”

“Consider us even then,” he murmured, and then he was gone in a burst of green.

It was weeks later when she finally understood the compliment, even longer before she could warm her heart on it.

 

 **APRIL 2000**

“Are you upset?”

“ _...What?_ “

“It seems like you’re upset with me.”

His pulse had yet to slow, the sweat had yet to dry, and his cock had yet to soften. He turned his head toward her. “I seem _upset?_ “

“Could you please talk to me?”

She took a deep breath, and Draco’s heart stopped. Apparently, it was going to be one of those conversations.

“I feel like you’re just not really here with me lately, when we’re... together.” Hermione was lying there stiffly, giving the water-damaged ceiling all of her focus. “It’s as though I could be anyone, or like I’m with a stranger...”

A burning coal settled in the pit of his stomach. “Right. If you’re not satisfied—”

She sighed. “Draco, that’s not what I’m saying.”

He sat up and pushed himself back to lean against the headboard. “No, really, Granger, why don’t you give me some pointers? You could maybe even set me up for some on-the-job training.”

“Right.” She nodded. At that, she finally made eye contact, and her confidence puffed her up. “This is about your reassignment.”

He looked at her incredulously. “This isn’t about anything! You brought it up. You push... You get an idea in your head, and it doesn’t matter what the reality is, you just—”

“I didn’t have anything to do with the decision, you know,” she said, with infuriating calm. “There just isn’t as desperate a need. We’ve done our jobs too well, really.”

He let out a huff of air, got up and picked up his pants. “Yes. So you’ve said.” He knew it was impossible to stop Hermione once she was off on whatever she’d decided was the issue. They’d had this conversation more times than he’d already cared to, and Draco couldn’t face going into all of it again.

“Nelson said you could be kept on as a consultant, and I filed notice for you with the Auror’s department, so it’s going to be fine with your probation.”

“You think of everything,” he ground through his teeth, his back to her. Zipping his trousers, he looked about for his shirt and tried to get control of the anger starting to burn in his chest.

It didn’t much help to remind himself that she meant well when she was treating him like one of her bloody projects. At times, Draco felt more like a house-elf than a man; much less _her_ man. More and more lately, he was feeling like he would never get out from under the suffocating weight of her good deeds.

When he turned back around, she was sitting with her knees to her chest, the duvet pulled up, her arms wrapped around her legs. “Listen, Draco. I feel like you’re fighting it. Like you don’t want things to change.”

“What is it that will change, Hermione?” Draco located his shirt and snapped it up off the ground. “You’ll be you, and I’ll be me, and it will all read so beautifully in the papers: Hermione Granger, adopting the reformed Death Eater and domesticating him like a Kneazle. Always one to take up a cause, that Granger.”

Confusion twisted her face. “How do you figure _that_? This is about not having to hide our association. We could bring our relationship out in the open.” She paused, her voice losing some of its strength as she asked, “Don’t you want that?”

“Oh? And just who am I, this person you’re associated with, in the eyes of the greater wizarding public?” he said, holding his arms open wide. “What does anybody know about me or what I’ve been doing the past couple of years?”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Why does that matter?”

He dropped his arms heavily to his sides and let out a bitter laugh. “Exactly. What does it matter?” he muttered.

“Why should you care what they think of you, Draco? You never have before.”

“I don’t care what they think,” he said angrily, “I care how I’m perceived. If you want to roll us out like one of your campaigns, then I should be able to control some of the story.”

Hermione looked stunned. “This is ridiculous,” she breathed.

“Yes, so you’ve said.”

Falling back to lean against the headboard, she shook her head. “This has nothing to do with any of that, does it? You just don’t want people to know about us.”

Draco stopped searching under the duvet for his shoes and straightened to look at her. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I? You fight every idea I come up with to help us to go public. I can’t help but think you’re... ashamed—”

“I’m not the one who hasn’t even told her own parents, Hermione. I don’t have to make nice with an ex-boyfriend just so no one suspects anything!”

“What am I supposed to think, Draco?” Her voice was impossibly small, and it was making him inexplicably annoyed. “If you’d just be honest with me. If you don’t want to do this anymore—”

“I definitely don’t want to do _this_.”

“I mean us.” She looked down at her hands and fiddled with the blanket. “I feel like you’re slipping away, and I don’t know how to reach you lately.”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m right here, Hermione, I’m always here.” He saw his other shoe across the room and headed toward it. “You need me here more often? Perhaps you could work out a schedule with my mother.”

“You’re not here,” she said firmly, and then more softly added, “You’re not happy, and I’m... not happy.”

Draco’s stomach twisted at that, and a deep sickening feeling lodged there. He couldn’t make anyone happy. There was no use being here. He straightened, a shoe in each hand, and barely breathed, waiting for her to continue.

“Maybe with this change coming, with us not working together, you could see...” She took a deep breath. “You could see what it is you want.”

“For fuck’s sake, Granger,” he said, exhausted. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you here! I want you to stay... But you’re just unhappy, and when you’re with me it makes me feel like I’m nothing... I mean, if you’re not attracted to me—”

“Not right now, I’m not,” he said coldly. Someone had replaced Hermione with this whinging mess of a girl who was chipping away at the small bit of pride he had left, and she wanted him to make her feel better? For a split second, he thought the fire had ignited in her eyes in response, but she wasn’t about to storm out of the room when she was completely naked under those covers.

Hermione sat up, the duvet held to her chin in her fists. She looked small and scared and he despised it. “Draco... If you’re not willing to do the things you’d have to do for us to be together, really together... then I can’t see what I mean to you.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “I can’t believe I mean _anything_ to you.”

It was time to go, he decided. There was no time to put on his shoes, he’d just carry them through the Floo.

“Well, Granger, as usual, you seem to have it all figured out. You don’t need me for this,” he said, and left for home.

 

 **MARCH 2000**

She’d read once about Korean Wedding Ducks. Traditionally carved from wood, one each representing the Bride and Groom are presented to the couple during the ceremony. After the wedding, they are placed prominently in the couples’ home, their positioning – being placed so by either spouse – from then on symbolizing their marital state. Ducks pointing nose to nose show a couple living in harmony; tail to tail signifies they are experiencing troubles. Apparently, if during a fight one of them points to the ducks, it is to remind them of the peaceful wedding they shared, thus ending the quarrel.

Hermione had been reminded of the ducks when Draco had started spending nights at her flat, bringing his toothbrush along with him. On the counter in the loo, his brush had lain next to hers in a variety of configurations that certainly signified something: touching, spooning, and overlapping. On notable occasions, they would seem almost curled together, top to bottom, each brush nestled against the other’s handle. She had kept her amusement to herself, but took quite a bit of fun in seeing how they landed, especially when she’d untangled herself in the middle of the night for a trip to the toilet.

Now, in the dim light from over the mirror, she stood staring at one blue brush, bristles worn to where they curled outward and flattened from the center, lying with its back to the back of a green one, showing very little wear and tear from its months of use. About ten centimeters of cracked tile separated them.

She looked out into the darkness of the room beyond where Draco lay sleeping and thought of symbolism, and creeping spaces between, and the immutability of their positions.

 

 **FEBRUARY 2000**

“I disagree with your reasoning.”

“I just explained my reasoning.”

“It doesn’t follow that I can’t disagree with it.”

“Draco, I was just giving the pros and cons of each. Which one would you rather?”

“I don’t actually care, as long as it’s not the pub.”

“You don’t have a preference between Indian and French?”

“No. You choose.”

“...Okay... I just...”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’ll... How about the curry then?”

“Fine.”

“Right. Of course, maybe we should...”

“Hermione, I really don’t care.”

 

 **DECEMBER 1999**

It was a rare sight. Hermione was half-dressed, perched on the side of his satin-and-brocade covered bed, pulling on her silk stockings. She’d had a presentation at work and was in her best, which included (always to his delight) garters. She was rarely here at the manor, but his mother was gone for the week, and Draco was tired of traveling by Floo back and forth every morning. It was comfortable here, being the one lounging underneath the covers, watching _her_ walk around looking for her clothes.

“What are the plans for Christmas Eve then?” she said, buttoning her blouse.

“I’ve got to go to Pansy’s for the day, but I can get out of there by ten if you want to meet up and spend the night.”

She hopped around on one leg, putting on her shoe. (Yes, very nice to be the one watching.) “I go to Mum and Dad’s for the night and stay ‘til morning. What about afternoon on Christmas Day?”

“I’ll be here all day with Mum. There will also be some family friends, so...” They shared a look of understanding. “But that night—”

“I have plans with the Weasleys,” she said hurriedly, giving him a warning look. “I’m there for Christmas dinner every year.”

He sat up, forearms resting on bended knees. “So, afterward. I’ll come over later and bring—”

“I’ll be spending the night.” She turned, putting on her earrings as she walked toward him. “It’s tradition.”

“Really,” he said tightly, “you can’t break the tradition of spending the night with your ex-boyfriend?”

“Hardly. I wouldn’t call Ron an ‘ex.’”

“Well, based on the behavior I observed from him last week, I’d have to say he wouldn’t call himself an ‘ex’ either,” he said sourly. Pulling up the covers roughly, he began rooting around for something near his feet.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Day after, then. We could spend Boxing Day together.”

His voice was muffled as he spoke with his head under the duvet. “Mum has official charity functions that day.” Head popping out, he continued, “She needs an escort.”

She made a growling noise and stalked over to her handbag at the foot of the bed, flopping down with huff. “You could make time Christmas afternoon. Your mother doesn’t need to have you all day.”

He squirmed about, pulling his pants back on under the covers, but his eyes never left her face. “I can’t leave my mother— I _won’t_ leave her alone on the holiday. You could always invite me to join your family,” he said pointedly.

Sighing, she rubbed her forehead. “I’ve told you; it’s really complicated explaining any magical... things or people to them now, and anything involving memory charms...” She looked to him and said pleadingly, “I need you to understand this.”

“I _do_ ,” he said, giving her a look before rolling to his side and opening a drawer in his nightstand.

Chastised, she snapped, “This would all be unnecessary if you’d just let me help with the internship. We’d be able—”

“Here.” He crawled down the bed and perched next to her on his knees, holding out a weighty package about the length of his hand. “If we were perhaps going to be able to coordinate before New Year’s—“ Her eyes lit up at the mention. “Sorry, I co-host a party with Blaise every year.” She slumped, cradling the package in her lap with both hands. “As it is, I think you should just take this and open it when the mood strikes.”

“Draco—”

“Happy Christmas, Hermione.”

 

 **OCTOBER 1999**

She’d waited until coffee was on the table and dessert was ordered. It was his favorite restaurant – his favorite Muggle one anyway, since they couldn’t be seen together, they’d never been to a wizarding one – and she’d worn the dress he’d complimented her in the most, and put her hair up the way he liked it. He was beginning to get suspicious, she could tell, as he eyed her curiously the few times she giggled uncontrollably at his jokes. Hermione Granger didn’t giggle, as a rule.

“Right,” he said, placing his cup gently back in its saucer. “I could keep talking about the proposed law for the protection of Knockturn Alley merchants, or you could tell me why you’re grinning madly and ignoring every word I’m saying.”

“Am I grinning?” she said with another of those giggles which were beginning to annoy even her. When Draco sat back in his chair, arms crossed and the challenge clear, she turned and pulled a thick envelope from her handbag and laid it on the table in front of his coffee. Only his eyes moved, looking at the envelope and back up. “Open it,” she said, clasping her hands on the table in front of her to keep from reaching over and doing it herself.

Brow crinkled in confusion, he opened the envelope and unfolded what was a thick, multi-paged application, as well as two signed letters on Ministry letterhead. As he flipped through the packet, his forehead smoothed to leave his face completely expressionless.

Impatient, her hands darted across the table. “See, it’s the application for the apprenticeship, which just needs your signature, and letters of recommendation from Nelson and myself, so you’re set to turn it in for the deadline for next session in two weeks.”

He’d surrendered the papers to her excited demonstration, the palms of his hands sliding back to push into the edge of the table, fingers gripping, the tips turning white. Sounding merely curious, he said, softly, “And why did you decide to do this?”

Hermione was taken aback. She’d thought he’d be surprised, but he had a blank look that she’d never encountered. Trying to transfer some of the excitement she felt, she said, “Well, I was at Gringotts last month talking to Bogrod. Miraculously, he doesn’t seem to hold a grudge for that business during the war, so I thought that maybe if I came to some sort of understanding with him, I could convince him to convince the board to consider you! It’s nothing for sure, mind you, but when I talked to Nelson and he was all for putting in for you—”

“You thought the situation called for another rescue mission from Hermione Granger, did you?” The tone of his voice was cold as ice and very polite.

“Wh— Draco, it’s all you need to get into the program. You’ve wanted to do this since you—”

“Yes, and I explained to you that it was impossible.”

“But it’s not impossible! Nelson’s recommendation is going to carry a lot of weight. There aren’t many people more respected than he in the Ministry or throughout even the goblin community.”

“Except perhaps you, maybe?” The danger in his voice was clear. It made her wonder if doing this in a public place had been a fortuitous idea.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands reaching out toward him. “This isn’t about me, Draco, but it could be about _us_. Have you thought about what it could mean for us if we weren’t working together?” She looked about the restaurant, and lowered her voice, saying, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we didn’t have to skulk about in Muggle places and keep secrets from our friends?”

“I don’t need you to explain it to me,” he said stiffly. “I’m quite capable of thinking, and strategizing, and functioning on my own. Surely on a more basic level than you, but quite adequately. Certainly there must be someone else in need of your charity. One of the many Weasleys, perhaps?”

She sat back, crossing her arms. “Draco, you’re being ridiculous. It’s just selfish to care about _how_ it happens when there are things more important than your bloody pride.”

His eyes bored into hers, anger, finally, in his gaze. Just then the check arrived, and Draco gave it only a cursory glance as he reached for his wallet. She fidgeted, antsy to resolve the fight, wondering if she could still save the evening and make him receptive to her idea. He pulled out a wad of bills and put them on the tray, sliding it to the edge of the table.

“Hang on, Draco,” she said, reaching for her bag with one hand and the bill in the other. “I invited you tonight, I should get this.”

Placing his hand over the lot, his expression froze her. “I insist,” he said. He stood to pull out her chair, and from behind her, his voice sounded distant. “You can owe me. Just this once.”

 

 **SEPTEMBER 1999**

Draco cursed as he stumbled from the Floo, unable to bring himself to care about the soot he was tracking onto the rug. This was not shaping up to be his best day.

 _The Prophet_ was running a story about the history of Death Eaters in which he and his father were mentioned by name. Blaise’s owl had bitten him when delivering the post (almost certainly on the orders of its master who was probably tired of being ignored). He’d gotten egg yolk on his trouser leg at breakfast, too busy trying to soothe his mother to get the food safely to his mouth. He’d spent a half hour trying to calm her down, and had no time to change. Now he was late, unkempt, and soon to be unhinged if he was going to have to have a fight with his girlfriend (a term, by the way, which he had no intention of using aloud).

His mum’s complaint was as valid as Blaise’s; he’d been unavailable for months. He hadn’t been home for more than a night at a time for as long as he could remember, and what little time he did devote to them was only when Granger had unbreakable plans. Narcissa had accepted his working with Hermione rather easily, their actual friendship slightly less so, and the knowledge of his relationship with her with tight acknowledgment. But she was alone in an empty manor most nights, her husband away for the foreseeable future, and much of her social circle decimated by the war. Draco knew she needed his company and, in theory, he had no problem providing it.

If he could only control his need to spend all his time with Hermione, he would be able to keep everyone... well, _mostly_ happy.

He’d assumed that this desire would fade somewhat with time. It had changed, certainly, as it was no longer the hot, grasping want he’d had for her at first, but had morphed into something deeper that he wasn’t keeping in check. Draco could neither abide nor afford to be out of control; his position was too precarious in the community and with his friends. Keeping secrets from the majority of his acquaintances while trying to build a reputation with the few in power willing to help him advance was too much to deal with. He’d handled it lately by not doing so at all, and it had to change.

It just wasn’t reasonable or rational to feel this way about a person, to crave them so constantly. If she couldn’t accept that he needed his space and was going to demand his time in return, then she wasn’t being reasonable herself. He’d just have to be strong and resist his need for Hermione the best he could. It would probably wear off if he just didn’t give into it so often.

“You’re late.”

What wasn’t helping his resistance, however, was seeing her standing before him now, arms crossed and foot tapping. Her hair was a gorgeous loose mass of curls, and she was wearing that plaid skirt he liked; it was just reminiscent enough of the Hogwarts uniform to make his blood boil. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Eyeing the skirt, he sighed affectedly. “Promoted ourselves to Head Girl again, have we, Granger?”

She pursed her lips, her hands fluttering self-consciously over the skirt. “Fancying ourselves the rumpled professor, Malfoy?” she said with a light smile, eyeing his untidy appearance.

This was disastrous. She was bringing all kinds of naughty imagery and daydreams of role-playing to mind.

He scowled inwardly and smirked outwardly, making one last attempt to simplify his day. “Can you at least get that untamed mess up and in check? I know we’ll be making sure the Wimpoles won’t actually remember our appointment with them, but I still have a reputation that will suffer, albeit temporarily.”

Hermione shook her head, looking down as she gathered it up in a ponytail with her hands, murmuring a spell that would hold it in a band. When she looked up, the smile was gone. “You’re a charmer of a boyfriend, Malfoy, you know that?” She played it for sarcasm, crossing the room to kiss him lightly on the mouth.

He licked his lips, sniffing at her scent as she turned away, and thought that perhaps if he made it home just early enough tonight for dessert, his mum wouldn’t complain. As Hermione made her way to the Floo, he realized with a start that she’d just called him her _boyfriend_. Aloud.

 

 **JULY 1999**

“I didn’t say I would go.”

“Draco, you explicitly implied that you would.”

“Hermione... that doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does! You _do_ this. You make it seem like you’re alright with something, not wanting to have a fight about it, but then when it comes time to go, you come up with some reason why you can’t do it.”

“I happen to think an alternate engagement is a perfectly reaso—”

“Millicent’s Midsummer Soiree? You could come up with something better than that. I think I deserve better.”

“She’s renowned for them. Her ice sculptures are legend in some circles.”

“Circles of hell, I’m sure.”

“Hmm. I can see whatever-it-is some other time, surely.”

“No, you can’t. It’s a one-night engagement at the movie house, they only show classic films once a month, and I thought long and hard before coming up with ‘The Big Heat,’ which I think you’d really like.”

“Well... I really like the name. What is it about then, ‘Heat?’”

“Stop. I’m angry at you and... hurt. And— no, I’m not letting this go because it’s the third time I’ve mmmrmrfrh— See, this is just exactly what I’m talking about, trying to get out of a figgghugh... Uhhhmmm.”

 

 **JUNE 1999**

Hermione hurried back from the loo, feet bare on the cold floor, and flipped the corner of the duvet up just enough for her to dive back under it. As she was trying to settle on her side, his arm reached out immediately to grab her, pulling her tightly against him. She pushed back into him, her bum nestling in the cradle of his pelvis and legs, humming at the perfect fit, the perfect warmth, the perfect comfort.

He gave a sleepy groan into her hair, and the hand flat on her stomach began to move. She smirked. She knew instantly the moment he discovered what she’d done and waited for him to wake up enough to comment. It took approximately ten seconds.

“Hrrmmm— Whassis?”

His blond head made an appearance in the corner of her vision as he leaned up on one elbow. She giggled, mostly from nerves, turning her head to look at him. It was dicey to have to maneuver this kind of a day so early in a relationship, but this had been her best idea.

His eyes barely open enough to take her in, Draco scowled down at the cotton camisole and pajama shorts she’d returned to bed wearing. Without a word, he shifted and rocked her so she was laying on her back, himself over her. His hands slid up and made quick work getting rid of the offending clothing; Draco had a tendency to treat any fabric covering her as the enemy.

“I was thinking we could go to the park today... You know, the one two streets over that we saw last week?” She leaned forward and raised her arms, helping him remove her top. His hands came down on both sides of her shoulders, his arms straightened to study her from high above. “There’s a street festival happening on one side, so there should be lots to see.” He bent his arms, slowly descending to kiss her lips lightly. From there, he traveled her neck, her collarbone, then settled on his forearms for an extended trip south. “I used to love to go to the street fairs when I was a kid. My dad once told me that the people were all circus performers in disguise, and they had to hide themselves during the day behind these booths.” Draco raised his head at this, his eyebrows raised. “I’m not sure why he told me that. Dad was always making up weird and unnecessary stories. He told me once that the woman babysitting me was the real Mary Poppins; the woman on which the movie was based. He laughed himself silly when I asked her if I could ride her umbrella.”

Having resumed his exploration, Draco had only a perfunctory _humpfh_ to offer that tale, his breath tickling her stomach. Reaching her waist, he pulled himself up to kneel between her legs, hands smoothing either side of her thighs, eyes roaming the skin he’d traversed.

Hermione blushed, still a little new to his matter-of-fact regard. “After the park, I thought we could get some curry, and maybe go to a movie?” He snorted at this, as she’d yet to be successful in getting him to try that Muggle curiosity. His hands slid to her waist, fingers dipping inside the elastic of her shorts to pull them down, her legs coming up as he wrestled them off. He caught her left shin in his hand, bringing it up to kiss the inside of her ankle. Returning upwards, he proceeded to kiss back to her center, draping her leg over his shoulder as he went. “Well then, you choose what we’re going to do tonight because we haven’t had a Saturday off in so long that I refuse to waste it—”

His growl ended as a groan. He was silent, but his heavy breath on her thigh was unmistakable. She fiddled with the hair on his right forearm and looked at him shyly. His gaze was frozen on the white cotton g-string she’d charmed to say “Happy Birthday Draco’ in magenta sparkles.

“I just thought... what can you get the man who has everything, right?”

Draco dragged his eyes up to hers, amusement in his eyes, wearing the wicked smirk that made her stomach flip. “Indeed,” he said, and dove in.

 

 **MAY 1999**

“Why are you here?”

He had stopped listening to her at least ten minutes ago. She was babbling, flitting about the parlor in a floor-length plum-colored evening gown, and there were so many things wrong with this picture that he could hardly focus on whatever it was she was going on about. He’d gleaned that it had to do with her multitude of friends, and what they’d worn that night, and who had brought whom to the fete, and some such rot about great, mournful speeches causing everyone to break down in tears.

But at his question, she stopped abruptly and turned from where she’d been fingering the music box on the mantle that she always gravitated toward when they were in this room. She looked at her hands smoothing down the skirt of her dress and said, “I told you, Dean was talking about Yorkshire, and I was reminded about getting a head start on the research.”

His face scrunched up in confusion as he tried to recall the thread of that topic, but realized it was unimportant. It was bollocks anyway. “So you left this glorious party, at which you were apparently having a smashing time, to come here about the Barrington case? I was having a fine evening myself and have no burning need to be entertained, so I repeat: why are you here?”

“Why weren’t you there?”

Straightening his legs and pushing back into the sofa, Draco spread both arms out over the top. “They say turnabout is fair play, but it certainly isn’t good conversation, Granger.”

She shifted hard to one side, popping her hip to the right, hand dropped to lay upon it in overdone annoyance. When she flipped her hair over her shoulder, he found himself unaccountably incensed at the state of it: long, straightened, frizz-controlled to a glossy sheen, and falling easily about her bare shoulders. He must have been scowling at it because her brow furrowed, and she patted nervously at it.

“Wouldn’t you have liked to be a part of it?”

“Not particularly,” he said dryly. “Why should you think I would?”

She looked down, playing with the fabric of her skirt, pulling up the layers and letting them fall. “Well, _I’m_ a part of it, you know.” She shot him a shy smile then looked away. “It would have been nice if you’d been there too.”

His eyebrows shot skyward. “Oh, really? You thought it would have been nice if I were hanging out with you and your mates at the First Annual Anniversary Gala? What, would I have talked Quidditch with Potter and Weasley?” He snorted (he could admit) unattractively.

She rolled her eyes. “It wouldn’t have been so dramatic. You know Harry doesn’t care—”

“Oh? And Weasley, then?”

Hermione was silent, but her face took on that sour expression she got when she suspected she’d lost a point.

“Granger, what you thought is that it would be _nice_ if I were, essentially, someone else.”

“No, it would have been nice if _you_ were at the gala.” She tossed that blasted hair. “You’ve earned the right to be there.” Her chin jutted in that ridiculous pose she used when taking a stand.

Suddenly, all he saw was red as he launched himself from the sofa and walked briskly toward her. She lost a bit of that confidence, retreating half a step. He was absurdly pleased by it, but could see her quickly reminding herself to hold her ground. He was soon toe-to-toe with her, and the blood buzzed in his veins.

“Granger, I don’t give a fuck about earning anything from those wankers who did nothing but sit on the sidelines, who sacrificed nothing, lost nothing, but who have since _done_ nothing but broadcast the most vocal opinions about all of it. They sit there in their official robes, they scratch with their quick-notes quills, the bastards stare at me from behind their counters, and they don’t have— _can’t_ have the slightest clue of... It sickens me.”

The short wisps of hair that floated out from her hairline were buffeted by his every blustering breath. He paused and watched them move for a moment, and when he spoke again, it was softer. “Besides, according to them, I’ve earned nothing. Nothing I’ve done actually _exists_ officially, does it? And we all know that nothing has happened unless it’s reported in the bloody _Prophet_. So, I’m sorry, but history hasn’t actually been rewritten to look just like your shiny, new version in that Pollyanna imagination of yours.”

She narrowed her eyes and regained that half a step. “I haven’t rewritten _anything_ , Malfoy. As a matter of fact, I have a crystal clear view of the past. I learned at the age of eleven all about having to earn my right to... just _be_ in this world, and it was _you_ I learned it from, so don’t—”

“Exactly,” he whispered. “So why are you here?”

Granger just looked at him, wide-eyed, barely breathing, but her face open and unashamed. He realized two things in quick succession: one, he was standing very close to her and had backed her up against the mantle; and two, they were seriously in danger of having a _moment_. Draco was the type who would walk to Hogsmeade and back in the rain rather than experience one of those, so he dispensed with it in the most efficient way he could imagine.

He kissed her. She must have figured out what he was going to do almost before he did, because she crashed into him at the same time, causing him to overbalance. Draco tipped them so sharply that he had to palm the back of her head to keep her from cracking it open on the edge of the mantle. His other hand gripped the rim of marble to regain their equilibrium, and his fingertips jostled the music box there so that it teetered and resettled with its lid open. The tinkling sounds of “Clair de Lune” began, and she released a delighted laugh into his mouth.

The kiss was like everything Granger, feisty and thorough and brilliant. His hand dove into her hair, not how he wanted it to be, but still where he wanted to be. Grabbing a closed handful and yanking to angle her properly, he groaned when she bit his lip in response.

He pulled back to look in her eyes; they were dark and unfocused but burning into his own. Experimentally, he yanked again and at her answering moan, he said, “Well, this mess is good for something, isn’t it?” Her eyes slid shut, and her head fell back to receive his lips once more.

Draco hadn’t intended to shag her on the leather couch of his family’s parlor in full view of Great-Grand-Aunt Belvina’s portrait. But every time he tried to stop (not really in earnest, mind you), she would pull him back, unbutton or unzip something for him, un _clasp_ something on herself, and he was lost. Until, when sliding into her, he looked into her eyes and was found.


	2. Chapter 2

**APRIL 1999**

He had such style with his wand.

Hermione had always had an interest in the patterns and movements of spell-casting and had always watched and studied closely. The more elaborate transfiguration spells could be mesmerizing, while the conjuring of Dark curses was sometimes terrifying to witness. She had finally admitted to herself that she liked watching _Malfoy_ , though, and that the tingle that started at her temples and shot down her spine could be a sign of something more.

It was the way he held the wand. He had a gentleness with it that brought to mind the moves of a conductor, and she sometimes fancied she could hear the music he coaxed from the air and the magic around him.

The chest he was working on was no longer than a loaf of bread, only slightly wider, and made of carved and stained oak. It was deceptively innocuous to look at, as it radiated with Dark magic. They didn’t know what was inside it, but given how many times it had changed hands among Voldemort’s faithful, searching for ever more obscure hiding places, they were expecting it to be something quite nefarious. Draco was working through the enchantments that kept it sealed and had just broken through the third out of what he calculated to be twenty-two locks. It was good that Hermione enjoyed watching him work, as she was going to be doing it all night.

“What is that move you do at the end of the phrase... that flourish?” She demonstrated with her empty hand.

Malfoy looked at her as though he had forgotten she was there, a light sheen of sweat on his face, hair falling in his eyes. He paused his movements and answered, “It’s a sort of adherence charm, which weaves my break into the fabric of the overall enchantment. It keeps my place like a bookmark.” Having paused his work, he laced the fingers of each hand together, twisted the palms outward and stretched his arms above his head with a groan. Plopping down on the stool behind him, he looked at her with lethargic satisfaction. “Time for a break, yeah? I’ll get a snack brought down for us.”

Hermione waited, having learned to just ignore everything from the summoning through to the dismissal of house-elves. “I’ve meant to thank you for letting us work here. Please give your mother thanks as well for having us... not everyone would like to have this sort of thing going on in the cellar under their kitchens.”

“Well, I can hardly waltz through the halls of the Ministry with you, so we have to do this somewhere.”

She thought she caught a hint of hurt in his tone, which was absurd. It was vital that their work remain secret for his own protection as well as for the well-being of the project. And surely he didn’t want his friends to know he associated willingly with the likes of _her_?

“Besides, mum knows how much I like the work.” He looked thoughtfully at the chest, reflexively picking up his wand to start again.

Hermione wasn’t ready for the break to end yet. “You’re very good at it,” she blurted. God, that had sounded much better in her head, where it didn’t seem forced and inadequate. At his raised eyebrow, she continued, “You should look into being a curse-breaker for Gringotts. I know they have an internsh—”

“It’s quite impossible.” His sleepy relaxation was gone in an instant, and he was suddenly a flurry of activity, tidying the table, avoiding her gaze.

“What? Why do you say that? They’re definitely the most competitive program, but you’re surely better than anyone coming into training, far and away.” She cursed her cheeks for reddening, but she had meant to say it for a while now. He was incredibly good at it, damn it, and she could admit such a thing without worrying about it looking like she thought more of him than she... than she really did.

He stopped his busy work then and looked at her, and his face was more open than she’d ever seen it. Shaking his head, his tone was apologetic. “It’s impossible because the name Malfoy,” he paused, clearing his throat, “and those of former Death Eaters in general, aren’t too popular with the goblins. We’ve probably burned more bridges than can be rebuilt in this lifetime.”

“Oh.”

Every time Hermione was reminded of just who he was, it splashed her in the face like a bucket of water. It was strange that she could actually _forget_ for a while that he was Malfoy and what that meant. That had used to mean something to her, but it was becoming an ever more distant memory. She had become more and more comfortable with the fact that the person with whom she most enjoyed spending her time lately was him. Malfoy. _Draco_.

She must have looked a bit crestfallen then because he said, soothingly, “It was what I wanted to do though, before. It’s the family tradition, going back to my great-grandfather and before him; the Malfoys were renowned for their innovation in making protection and security wards. I started studying it before I even left for Hogwarts, though I was always far more interested in the _enchantment-subversion_ side of things.” At her incredulous look, he said in all seriousness, “That’s the technical term for it.” She couldn’t help but laugh, and he smirked, dipping his head to watch his wand rolling back and forth on the table between his thumb and pinkie. “It’s satisfying.” He sat back, hand flat, covering his wand, his face suddenly looking like an open invitation.

“Well, yes,” she said excitedly, “there’s such intricacy to it. One well constructed enchantment could keep you occupied for days.” Hermione couldn’t think of anything more lovely.

Draco chuckled. “Yeah, I guess there’s that, but... think of it like being abandoned in the middle of the Forbidden Forest in the dead of night, or challenged to crack some complicated safe. Like you were plopped in the middle of a maze, say, and had to find your way out. But as you’re working through it, the person who left you – or the maze-builder or the combination-writer – was waiting for you on the other side. He’s standing there challenging you to figure him out, to break down his walls, to _best_ him.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees. There was a brightness to his eyes that Hermione had never seen. It took her breath away.

“He can’t fail to respect you for that, because, well... he made it for you, really. He left it there to be figured out. You’re two sides of the same coin, the safe-builder and safe-cracker... You need each other. So, when you walk out, having unraveled his labyrinth, he’s got to shake your hand.” Malfoy shrugged, as though what he’d said wasn’t profound and revealing. “It’s a singular sort of victory, and it’s something no one can ever take away from you. _He’s_ the one who gave it to you.”

Hermione looked at him sitting here in this cellar at Malfoy Manor and wondered what it took to be able to do this in the dark without anyone to see. What did it take _from_ him to have to hide something he so loved? Could his quiet victory be enough for him?

As for her, she also liked to solve riddles, and she’d done her fair share of fighting around, vaulting over and breaking through walls. Looking at Draco now – eyes bright, cheekbones flushed pink, hands fidgeting and tinkering – she thought she might like to be dropped in the middle of him... it could take long, lovely days to find her way out.

 

 **MARCH 1999**

She was driving him mad.

He was beginning to think that it was intentional, though to what purpose he couldn’t fathom. She wasn’t doing anything specifically objectionable; Hermione was just sitting across from him figuring out the bill for tea, but everything about her lately was setting Draco on edge.

It was the hair. It hadn’t really improved at all through the years, which irked him (who doesn’t learn to use hair care products somewhere along the way?), though he could now admit, to himself only, that it wasn’t so much bushy as _untamed_. Most of the time, she had it up in some way – a pony-tail sometimes, but usually a twist – and he was fine with that. He could actually concentrate when it was up and out of the way.

How frequently he teased her about it was directly proportional to the number of times she wore it up, so he tried to do it as often as she gave him the opening. Because when she left it in it’s natural state, bouncing about looking soft and so bloody touchable, his thoughts just couldn’t help straying to what _else_ about her might be just as _untamed_.

Of course, that was nothing compared to what crossed his mind when she left it to dry naturally. Seeing the tips of her long ringlets still wet only reminded him of how recently she’d been naked (and _wet_ , his brain helpfully supplied) and that mental image loosened his grip on sanity.

He couldn’t even recall when it began. One minute she was just the swotty bluestocking who had infuriated him as a child, and the next she was the swotty bluestocking he wanted to lay out on the nearest flat surface. It was ridiculous and too reminiscent of those thin romance novels Pansy had giggled over for years, where the man suddenly wakes to the scintillating beauty who has been under his very nose all along.

Draco wasn’t a romantic hero, and he hated clichés.

She just wouldn’t stop _touching_ him. They were innocent touches, of course, just a hand on his arm to emphasize a point, or a quick rubbing of his shoulder with a smile when they were kidding around. That was all fine, really. But her legs were in on the action too, a thigh pressing up against his on a crowded train, or her knee pressing into his, as it was now, at a small table in a Muggle café. Could she possibly fancy him?

Draco wasn’t quite ready to really examine his feelings for _her_ , but he did know that his feelings about _shagging_ her were completely uncomplicated and overwhelmingly positive.

To try and work this out, he had taken to evaluating the contact she had with other men to see how it matched up to how she acted with him. Draco and Hermione didn’t see many people she knew well enough to get a really good sample, considering their association wasn’t public, but there were a few in the MLE that Draco could use to compare. There were two Aurors who knew of Draco’s work with the department in case anything went wrong in the field, and Hermione seemed to be friendly with them. Unfortunately, Potter was the other person informed of Draco’s work, so he was periodically present at off-site meetings.

The three of them were as close to a representative sample as he was going to get. He carefully timed her friendly touches to all three of them at around five seconds each. This was statistically comparable with the length and quality of touches he’d experienced. As for what she did with her legs... now that’s where it got more interesting.

Hermione didn’t sit as closely to them as she did to Draco, not even with that wanker of a best friend, and her knee was nowhere near as sociable. As the knee currently invading his space under the table slipped to the side, causing her foot to brush his own, Draco leaned back in his chair, thoroughly convinced and delighted with the scientific method.

She finished calculating her portion of the bill and the tip, leaving it all in a neat stack on the table. This had become their usual Tuesday afternoon routine. Some months ago, after one of their weekly meetings with Nelson, she had asked Draco to tea. They went to what was (Draco had to admit) a perfectly agreeable Muggle establishment, and they’d been coming here weekly ever since. It was far enough away from the Ministry that there was no risk of being seen together, but close enough that it was a pleasant walk.

She’d had to pay his portion that first time, as he was without the correct money. It was a shameful experience for Draco which he hadn’t allowed to happen ever again. However, even after he’d got in the habit of carrying Muggle currency, she would never permit him to pay the full bill, which flew in the face of his upbringing as well as his impulses as a gentleman. It irked him, and he worried that it was significant; indicative of how willing she was to be courted. He’d endured such ridicule when Blaise had seen the strange bills and coins he now always kept on him. It would be downright depressing if he never got to use any of it to woo the girl.

Hermione looked up from putting on her gloves and hat and gave him a smile. Her hair was down today, and it curled out from underneath the knitted wool cap. She got up, and as she reached over his head for her coat, the inside of her right thigh made contact with the inside of his. His breath caught as it pressed in firmly. She shifted her weight and leaned against him for a moment, the heat radiating through his trousers. Stepping back, her knee slid forward and away from him, leaving his leg cool in its wake.

His heart, which had momentarily stopped beating, suddenly pumped all the blood in his body southward when he looked up to see her jumper-encased breasts mere inches from his face. She straightened and stretched her arms wide and back, putting on her coat in one deft and efficient move. Draco swallowed thickly and averted his eyes, studiously trying to avoid drooling like a schoolboy.

“I don’t have to be back this afternoon, so… do you fancy a walk?” Her face was flushed and her gloved hands were nervously pushing her hair back from her shoulders.

He nodded and got up to follow her, quickly grabbing his own coat. He realized then, for the first time, that he was well and truly buggered. There wasn’t a place on her that Draco didn’t yearn to touch.

 

 **FEBRUARY 1999**

“I don’t know if I have anything to offer in the way of beverages or anything.” She looked back over her shoulder at him, lounging in the archway to her kitchen.

He smirked. “You don’t have much to offer in the way of basic motor skills, Granger, so I’m not sure how you planned on serving any—”

“Did you come here just to taunt me? Usually people try to cheer up the injured and ill.” Hermione stood in front of the open fridge, arm draped over the door, the chill seeping through her cotton pajama bottoms. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself, so she settled on being busy and avoiding eye contact.

He pushed off from the wall and walked toward her. “Whatever illness you suffer is systemic and chronic. I couldn’t possibly be sufficiently solicitous of your ailment all the time.” He reached under her arm and pulled a bottle of white wine from the rack in the door. She twitched and moved out of his way a second too late to avoid his brushing against her lower back. Her shudder had nothing to do with the air from the fridge. “But addressing this most recent calamity, I have nothing to offer as comment but that it was your own fault. You do have my sympathy, such as it is.”

She was looking him in the eye by the end of his speech, her eyebrow raised. “First, that’s not sympathy, it’s schadenfreude; and two, did you swallow a thesaurus or something?”

He smirked and held up the bottle. “Just point me toward— Oops, sorry. Rather, somehow gesture with your stumps in the direction of something with which to open this,” he trailed off, examining the label, and his eyes widened as he continued, “surprisingly good bottle of wine.”

Hermione went to place her fists on her hips, but the bandages wrapping both of them had rendered her fingers incapable of bending. It had been her fault, but Malfoy was never going to hear her admit it.

He had warned her against reaching into the vase until he got back, but she’d had enough of standing by and watching him do all of the interesting stuff. She had run every revealing spell she knew of, and absolutely nothing was showing on it. So, she’d dipped in, not knowing that there were stinging nettles inside. Draco hadn’t known either, mind you, and had she waited it probably would have been he who was bandaged and cranky, and _she_ would have been giving sympathy, surely. At any rate, the stinging nettles weren’t the Muggle plant kind, but an actual magical insect. She thus had what was the equivalent of about fifty bee stings on her poor hands and was out of work for the next week. Malfoy had shown up at her door about ten minutes before, the first time he’d ever been to her flat.

He poured her wine into a mug and they settled into her lounge. The conversation was slightly stilted at first, but grew looser as the wine flowed. She couldn’t quite figure why he was there; though he’d mostly accepted all of her overtures of camaraderie over the past months, he’d never instigated any friendliness before. She would have imagined it would be odd to see him here, as though he would stick out dramatically against the backdrop of her flat, but it was rather normal. Malfoy looked natural amongst her things. The wine flowed as easily as the conversation.

“I saw Mr. Vick by the way, at St. Mungos,” she said. “He needed to speak with my healer, so I was introduced.”

The Vick family estate had been one of their stops in the process of cleaning up Dark artifacts. Harold Vick was the brother of an imprisoned supporter of Voldemort, and since he worked at Gringotts and had access to powerful objects, he was investigated. Seeing him wasn’t the first time Hermione had come across someone on whom they’d used _Obliviate_ , but it always set her on edge to see the lack of recognition when their eyes met hers. It reminded her of when she found her parents after the war; they had introduced themselves innocently to the lovely young lady who’d knocked on their door. Hermione would never rid herself of the memory of their polite friendliness, and how warily they’d treated the stranger in their house.

“It got me thinking about first impressions and what it’s like to meet someone. You know how when you first meet someone, you get an idea of them and take a sort of mental picture of how you perceive them right then? That idea gets permanently etched in your mind, and it‘s only later, after you’ve gotten to know them, that you can think back and see that the image you had of them isn’t at all like how you see them now. For some reason, that original _idea_ of the person doesn’t get integrated into the whole person as you come to know them... It just exists as a separate entity, that first impression. So it made me think... what if Mr. Vick has got a different picture of me every time he’s met me?”

“Just what kind of pain potions did they give you, Granger?” Draco said with an indulgent smile. He dipped his chin and looked up at her from under heavy eyelids.

She gave him an exasperated look, but went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “Because I was thinking, when you look back at this original image of the one who is your friend, or your lover, whatever... don’t you wonder if there were infinite ways in which your impression of them could have formed? The idea you have of that person could have evolved _differently_ if you’d gotten to know them in another way, I think. What if you could trace it back to see where your idea of them veered off from that first impression of them? Maybe you could then determine if it had ever been possible for you to see them differently.”

Hermione looked down at her ridiculously bandaged hands clumsily holding the mug. She knew she was babbling, but it suddenly felt good to have him here, to talk to him like this, the same as she would any friend. This was the way it could have been, had they made different choices or walked alternate paths to bring them here.

Those paths had been forged mostly by others, though, and many of their options had been no choice at all.

“I just think sometimes of how I’m perceived, in what roles I’ve been cast, and wonder about what it would be like to go somewhere else, to meet entirely new people. Who would I be if I could start over? I’d technically be the same person but, well... not to them. Would I eventually just _be_ a different person, even to myself?” She forced her gaze up to meet Draco’s. “Do you think about it ever? Just... being someone else?”

Draco was looking at her thoughtfully, but there was a darkness behind his eyes. “It’s a gamble. Starting over is only a good thing if you assume the first impression is going to be a good one, and better than the fully realized picture. It doesn’t always follow.” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes it’s worse.”

She nodded, the image of a pale and pointy-faced little boy appearing in her mind’s eye, looking at her from across the hustle and bustle of a train station with bald curiosity and a little fear, but with no trace of malice. She tried, and not for the first time, to blend that young face with the man who sat before her. It was getting easier and easier to see that boy in him; easier to begin to forgive the teenager he had ultimately become.

“Sometimes.” She shrugged and shook her head to clear it, to see Draco, to be here. Now. “But it would be new. The person you’re meeting is new. And you could be new... with them.”

 

 **JANUARY 1999**

“You must have really gotten a taste for Mud-cunt, Draco, though I can’t imagine how. I can smell the stench all the way over here.” Bletchley stood with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, blocking the door to the parlor, an impossibly bitter look on his face.

Granger was doing her best to feign indifference, but Bletchley’s diatribe was extreme, even by Draco’s _former_ standards. Merlin, he’d grown tired of reminders of the stupidity of his youth. Stupidity, as his father used to say, is inexcusable. Draco couldn’t figure how Lucius had not only approved of such nonsense, but promoted it. But then, he was finding a lot of what his father had said and done in the past no longer something he wished to emulate.

Draco mirrored Bletchley, arms crossed on his chest, but his look was smug. “Well, Miles, it looks like we’ve gotten the lot of it. Very clever, actually, having that false panel in the wardrobe. It gave us a good five minutes of challenge in our search for the dagger, so thank you for that.”

His arms dropped heavily to his sides as he stormed toward Draco. “You’re shite. You’re nothing. You’ve been reduced to this... carrying water for the Ministry and kissing the arse of ugly Mudbloods, and you think you have the standing to even _speak_ to me?” He laughed darkly. “What a waste of Slytherin blood. If your father could see—”

“Yeah, yeah...” Draco rubbed his eyes roughly with the heel of his hand. He was starving, as it was well past tea time, and being reminded of his father twice in less than a minute was always the cause of a bad mood. ”Now skip ahead to the part about my sainted pure-blood ancestors and the sanctity of my mum’s loins. I’ve heard it from you so many times before, it’d be nice if you’d mix it up a little.”

“Malfoy,” Granger warned, but Bletchley just stood there, confusion dampening the anger in his expression.

“What the hell does it matter? We’re not going to leave him with any of this, and it’s getting tiresome.” He turned back to the idiot, who was practically frothing at the mouth in indignation. “Now, this had better be the last of it. We’d better not hear rumors of thirteenth century armor that can bounce Muggle bullets back from whence they came, or about some kind of hybrid dragon-Kneazle you’ve got living in the basement, because I’m not coming back.”

Bletchley was looking back and forth from him to Granger, trying to connect the dots in his head. “Fuck you, Draco! What is this?”

Draco drew his wand, and Bletchley regained his senses in time to reach for his own. He felt the tension leave his shoulders and calm settle over him. This was going to be good. It was going to feel right. Draco was finding that he liked things that felt right. But then, faster than he would have thought possible, Granger’s hand was on his arm, trying to push it downward as she took aim herself.

“You shouldn’t. Allow me.”

“I can handle it,” Draco said, eyes never leaving Bletchley. The latter’s wand arm shook, but his aim held true. “Give me this one.”

Granger didn’t even give him the courtesy of arguing – she rarely did – and stepped in front of him to take aim. Draco was tired of feeling like a tag-along, like an accessory, like a tool for the Ministry to use. He’d had enough of being used by the Dark Lord, and now he wanted only to feel _useful_. He could live with it if most of the world knew nothing of it, but he wanted to prove what he was capable of doing, even if only for himself.

If he were being completely honest, though, it mattered to him that at least Granger would know of his abilities. He felt like if he could prove his worth to this project, he could stop feeling beholden to her for everything he had. Draco had looked down on her for most of his life; now he would be satisfied if he could just pull himself up enough to meet her where she was.

Bletchley’s focus on Draco made it easy for Granger to cast the spell. “ _Obliviate!_ You never saw us. You spent the afternoon reading...”

Draco sighed, lowering his arm as she wove the spell, enjoying the dumb, glazed expression that came over Bletchley’s face. It suited him. Yes, a full tea, he decided. Perhaps Granger would ask him to join her again.

 

 **DECEMBER 1998**

“I just said I agreed with you.”

“No, you merely conceded that the choice was irrelevant.”

“For fuck’s sake, Granger, what’s the difference?”

“One implies correctness only by default, the other, empirical accuracy.”

“I mean, what’s the difference if we choose to scout the second location instead?”

“Because you refuse to acknowledge all of my research, and the fact that you rely on me for all—”

“You wouldn’t deign to read any research done by someone other than yourself and you know it!”

“See! You resent me and are expressing that by disagreeing with my choice of location!”

“Listen, you stupid bint, I said that I agreed, and don’t start fucking nodding at me because I’m not going to stand here listening to you get your knickers in a twist over noth—”

“It’s very simple, Malfoy. You just say ‘You were right, and I was wrong,’ and that’ll be the end—”

“You’re delusional, Granger. There is nothing to discuss here. I’m going to go to—”

“Not until you tell me—”

“I’m leaving.”

“Malfoy!”

 

 **NOVEMBER 1998**

She pushed past him, eager after the weeks of research to finally be getting a look at Mulciber Fortress; the oldest domicile in Wizarding England, over a thousand years old. The buttons of her coat pulled tight across her chest as she was yanked back by Malfoy’s grip, crashing into him. Annoyed, she straightened herself, turning and batting his arm where it still held her in his fist.

“What?”

“You’re going to want to wait for me.”

Hermione sighed. “You couldn’t just catch up, or holler for me to slow down?”

Malfoy pursed his lips, an undercurrent of triumph in his eyes. “You have to actually go _with_ me through the barrier. I have to have hold of you, and we both need to be encased in my shield charm. Otherwise, you’ll likely experience significant discomfort.”

Hermione grumbled and watched as Malfoy moved his wand in an intricate pattern, muttering a spell she didn’t recognize. A turquoise mist radiated out and began to encase him slowly from the head down. His hand shot out to grab her arm, pulling her toward him and inside the shield, which expanded to fit them both. She gave an annoyed grunt as she pushed against him to right herself again and made note to remind him of how she felt about all of this manhandling. He kept hold of her arm as they walked only about a meter, then he let her go, banished the shield and resumed walking.

She looked behind her at nothing but an open field. “That was it? We just went through the barrier?” She was unsurprised when this was met with silence. Draco was frequently moody and quiet, depending on where they were working. Of course, Hermione always wondered _why_ it happened when and where it did, but she was largely successful in keeping her questions to herself. She had to shout to him, half a dozen paces ahead, to ask, “What qualifies as ‘significant discomfort,’ by the way?”

Speaking over his shoulder, he replied, “Depending on how quickly I got to you, you’d have lost at least all your fingers. I could have probably reversed it before it got to your toes.”

Shuddering, she looked down at her feet, watching them crunch the cold grass. “I don’t understand. Why would you need a shield as we passed through? Wouldn’t my passing through arm in arm with you have sufficed? I’ve studied all the anti-Muggle wards, and I’ve never come across anything that required more than a pure-blood escort through the ward.”

Not breaking stride, he said, “Because those wards only require a wizard to be present to get through, whether they were dead or alive, as long as they hadn’t been dead more than a few hours. A wizard could be captured for that purpose, or a Muggle could hold on to one and even just trail someone through the barrier when giving chase... Hence the loss of fingers, incidentally. During the Witch Hunts, all of these were very real possibilities.”

“But then why not just create a ward that keeps all but wizarding blood out? I’ve read of that very thing being used extensively.”

He stopped abruptly and half-turned, his face still looking toward the fortress as he spoke. “The Mulcibers, generations back, were healers. They used to assist the medicine men of the Muggle villages and would occasionally need to bring them back here for care. For centuries, they were both venerated and persecuted for it.” He looked at her then, his breath visible in the cold. “It was only more recently that they brought Muggles and... Muggle-borns through the barrier for more nefarious purposes.”

Years ago, Hermione would have been surprised to hear him use that word to describe her lineage, or lack thereof as his point would have been. Now, she couldn’t recall the last time she heard him use the other term. It had been years ago, probably. Draco had continued toward the gate, opening it and holding it for her to walk through.

Hermione felt suddenly ashamed at her eagerness to see the site of so much torture and bloodshed for so many like her; all that separated her from them was time and circumstance. The castle was an irresistible piece of history for study, but its past was apparently far more complicated than she had imagined.

“Hey, Malfoy, how was it you could see the barrier? It couldn’t just be a pure-blood thing, because I haven’t read anything that could affect vision in that way just by blood.”

He had followed her through the gate and was still behind her as they crested a small incline to see the perfectly maintained castle in all its glory. It took her breath away with its truly terrible beauty.

“It was revealed to me with a spell when I was a kid,” he said softly. “I learned to play Quidditch here.”

 

 **OCTOBER 1998**

His brain was bleeding, he was sure of it. He couldn’t decide who he blamed more: Granger, for refusing to give up and accept that the old bint was insane and the job a complete loss; or the Honorable Lady Keddle, of the Keddles of Queerditch Marsh, who kept insisting that he and Granger consider having their wedding in the back garden in the spring. Apparently, the cyclamen are not to be missed in the weeks of early April.

Draco had agreed that it was essential that they find Marphan’s Staff, an artifact of dubious power but considerable legend. If the rumor got out that it was in England, both the power hungry and the fortune hunters would come running (and he’d had enough of both in his time, thanks very much).

They’d traced it here and he’d wanted to make the trip, but after an hour of Granger’s polite but firm inquiries being met with ever more incongruous responses from the Lady Keddle (she gave the full etymology of her dog’s name when asked about her family’s history), peppered with bouts of crisp lucidity (she’d asked after his mother before giving astonishingly sharp advice regarding his investment portfolio), Draco had concluded that anyone who came this way looking for anything would likely have no better luck.

He said as much to Granger, finding her surprisingly in agreement. As the Lady took leave to fetch another photo album, he further argued, “Look, I think we can just leave, right now even, and forget about _Obliviate_. There doesn’t seem much need for it in this case. I sincerely doubt we’ll even be missed if we leave before she returns.”

“You’re exaggerating. She’s still quite sharp and—”

He gave her a pointed look.

“Well, she’s still capable of mentioning having seen us, and who knows whether or not anyone takes her seriously.”

“Fine.” Draco got up from the sofa, stretched and cracked his neck. “But do me a favor and make sure you don’t wipe anything involving me or my actual existence. I think I might call on her for advice on short selling some stock.”

Granger gifted him with her most withering glance. He grinned.


	3. Chapter 3

**SEPTEMBER 1998**

The music box was silver, small and rectangular, standing on scrolled feet. The ornate, Rococo design had a peacock motif, the swirls and flourishes highlighting the Malfoy crest on the raised center of the lid. It was clearly valuable, and Hermione placed it somewhere in the early nineteenth century. She’d been trying not to tinker with it, but standing there in front of the mantle on which it was displayed, she couldn’t resist reaching out to run the tips of her fingers over the elaborate engraving. It was much nicer to focus on than the conversation she was having with Malfoy. _That_ wasn’t going well.

As she smoothed over the crest, she startled as a hinged cover popped open to reveal a multi-colored bird. A slow waltz she didn’t recognize began, and she hurried to find the mechanism to shut it off.

“So, what would I be getting out of it?”

She jumped again and turned to face him, annoyed at how on edge she was showing herself to be. “What do you mean by that, Malfoy?”

Malfoy stood stiffly a couple of meters away, his arms crossed. “This isn’t a strange concept Granger. It’s customary, when asking for a favor, to try and find some sort of angle that makes the _asked_ want to do what is being asked of them. That is, if one wants to reach any sort of success in their endeavor.”

He’d been defensive in both stance and manner since she arrived, but this snarky turn was new. To be fair, she could understand that random check-ups by Ministry personnel would make for suspicion whenever another one arrived at your door, so she wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t been invited to sit.

“Alright then,” she said, “what you’ll get is the fulfillment of one of the terms of your parole: employment. In this case, by the Ministry. What’s more, I would think you’d feel obligated—”

“I see.”

Hermione had been looking away, still trying to get the music to stop, but her gaze shot back to him at his cold tone. Her hand slipped and forced the lid closed, the music stopping abruptly with a clink. She winced, clasping her hands together to hold them steady as she turned back to him.

“I’m not sure I understand your reticence, Malfoy. You’d be righting the same wrong done to you and your family and helping people reclaim their lives and their homes. Voldemort stored dozens of Dark artifacts in the residences of any number of distinguished families. You know as well as I that most of the people living with these things now are doing so largely by accident, all left behind when the hardliners in their family got sent to Azkaban. They’re in danger, and they’re ill-equipped to handle it.”

Malfoy was standing very still, barely breathing. “Right. You think that I’m obligated to _them_ , am I?”

Hermione wondered why she had thought this would be easy. She needed his help and she wanted to work with him, but she didn’t know how to make him trust her sincerity.

“Fine, Malfoy, forget that. It was a poor choice of words. You should do what you want to do, what you feel is right, but if you feel like you’d like to do a good turn back to the Ministry... That’s all I meant.” She leant back against the mantle, feeling unsteady and wishing again that she’d asked him to meet her elsewhere, even though Malfoy pointedly steered her to the parlor opposite the drawing room she’d seen on her last visit. “Listen, I just need you to get me through the door and around these homes, most of which you know personally.”

Malfoy had relaxed slightly throughout her explanation, but he was eyeing her as though he suspected she was planning to make off with the silverware. “What makes you think I can get you in? I’m not exactly popular with this crowd anymore, you should know that. And after assisting with this, I’m not going to be the favorite son. I’ll become a social pariah. “

“Yes, well, I know how dreadful it would be to be cast from your social set,” she said, wryly. He gave her an annoyed look, and something about it made her feel like they were back on familiar ground. “But to answer your question, the Ministry credentials will mostly get us through the door, as will the fact that most of these people know that they’re unofficially under investigation. Once we get inside and are able to bargain with the actual family members... well, you have a better chance with them than I do. As for your reputation, you won’t have to worry about that. We’ll be using _Obliviate_ on them.”

Malfoy looked startled. Hermione wondered, and not for the first time, if she was unnaturally hardened against that particular brand of magic. She was already known for her skill with memory modification, but she worried that this reputation was destined to bring whispers and suspicious looks instead of respect.

“It’s for their sake as well as for our own,” she argued. “We need to keep them, as well as the public at large, ignorant to the very existence of these artifacts. Any leaks could inspire some rather horrifying treasure hunts. Besides,” she said, smirking, “I know it would forever ruin your image to be known to associate with me.”

Malfoy’s expression remained serious. “As it would yours to be known to associate with me,” he said softly. Sliding both hands into his pockets, he held her gaze. “But you say just a handy little _Obliviate_ and the problem’s solved? Just like that?”

“Just like that. It’ll be like you were never there.”

Malfoy’s look was pensive as he looked past her, murmuring absently, “Like it never happened.”

He then proceeded to argue and negotiate his exact role in the arrangement, including how they would be dealing with the Dark objects themselves, proving he wasn’t quite as blasé about the offer as he hoped to appear. Hermione conceded that she’d had a hand in choosing him specifically, though that clearly made him suspicious of the reason why. She got through it without having to admit she’d chosen him almost exclusively because of the skill he had with a wand, though; that admission would have made him absolutely impossible to work with.

In the end, he saw the logic in taking the Ministry’s offer of employment, as it would help rebuild his reputation at least within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, if not with the general public.

He saw her out of the manor himself, which surprised her, though not as much as when he continued to hold the massive door for her as she arranged her scarf and hat, which she did self-consciously.

The moment awkward, she said, “Hey, what was that song?” At his furrowed brow, she elaborated, “The one from the music box.”

“Oh... It’s by Heathcote, a wizard composer. It’s my mother’s favorite.”

He was studying her, and calculation was clear in his eyes. She’d begun an embarrassed farewell and made to leave by the time Malfoy had come to a hasty decision, looking none too pleased about it. Taking her by the elbow, he turned her to face him.

“Thank you.” He seemed to be trying to imbue those two words with as much meaning as possible.

She was distracted for a moment by the warmth of his hand, though his expression remained cool. “For what?”

“Don’t be coy, Granger. That’s the only one of those you’re going to get.”

He left her then, alone at the door.

 

 **AUGUST 1998**

“It was Malfoy’s hesitation that allowed Sna— _Professor_ Snape the time to get to the tower to fulfill his promise to Dumbledore. He was lowering his wand when the Professor arrived,” Potter said, his eyes bright from the recollection, but his voice steady.

“I guess you could say that he kept Crabbe from killing Harry, yeah. But, I mean... I couldn’t say _why_ he did it, you know? No idea with that git.” A dainty throat-clearing from the gallery had Weasley scowling and sitting up straighter. “But yeah, if Malfoy hadn’t deflected the curse then... you know.”

“His refusal to identify us was a key part of our escape and the subsequent rescue of the other prisoners held at Malfoy Manor. The doubt in Lestrange’s and the others’ minds delayed their call for Voldemort for long enough that Harry, Ron, and Dobby were able to mobilize,” Granger said, articulate as usual. (Her ability to withstand a Cruciatus better than he’d seen from hardened Death Eaters was certainly a noteworthy part of the episode, but no one seemed to care about any of that here.)

The trial had been moving along at a fast pace. It was the third afternoon, and his attorney was already deep in his summation, waxing on and on about his being ‘just a little boy,’ and ‘confused and buffeted by forces beyond his control.’ The barrister made a great deal out of the fact that Draco hadn’t killed anyone (an important point, of course), and that his greatest crimes were committed before he’d come of age. It was beginning to get repetitive even to Draco, whose coping strategy involved breathing in and out and keeping his mind off of the varying sentences hanging over his head.

Glancing to the Wizengamot to see how it was playing, he was shocked to see sympathetic nods and murmurings from more than a few of them. His lawyer had said he’d be at an advantage having not been held in custody at Azkaban before his trial, but Draco had been doubtful as to how much, and as to whether there would be a backlash against his having gotten special treatment.

At the trials of Terence Higgs, Marcus Flint, and Adrian Pucey, he had seen the ravages that could come over even the youngest and fittest of men in just a matter of months at the prison. A man in dirty gray clothes with a haunted look was easy to view as something foreign, as wholly unlike the esteemed members of the legal body judging them. They looked like criminals, like animals who deserved to be kept in a cage, and without exception, the Wizengamot had returned those who came from the prison back to it forthwith.

Yet here he sat, with his pressed robes and his combed hair, looking for all the world like, well... like just a boy who had been confused and buffeted by forces beyond his control. Seeing the reaction from the Wizengamot, Draco began to hope. Something like it had flared without his consent when he heard the testimony given by that infernal trio on his behalf before he had quashed it. No use hoping for the best when one should be busy preparing for the worst, as his father liked to say.

His father was in a cell in Azkaban for at least the next decade.

The rest of the trial flew by in a blur, with the deliberation taking only an hour. The verdict: released with three years of probation, regular checkups and limited travel. The fines tacked on were ridiculously paltry, given the Malfoys’ net worth, and the requirement to find steady employment for the duration of his probation within the year was daunting but reasonable. If Draco were an optimist, he would have thought this marked some astounding reversal of fortune. But he had been raised to be as trustful as a tiger, to always keep his back to walls, and to never stop listening for the ‘thunk’ of the other shoe.

As his mother wept, his lawyer preened, and the flashbulbs flashed, more than two years of tension and fear slid from his shoulders. Not even the shouts from scattered protestors about ‘miscarriages of justice’ penetrated the feeling of sheer relief at finding his life back in his own hands, such as it now was. Of course, it all went to pot when Potter (the aptly named) walked up to him as he left the courtroom, hand outstretched.

Draco entertained the idea of just walking past him or saying something about ‘the right kind of people’ (or whatever it was the shite had said years ago), but with the aforementioned flashbulbs still flashing, he had no choice but to clasp the hand and dread the caption in tomorrow’s _Daily Prophet_. (Did they deliver the paper to inmates at Azkaban?)

Hoping his grimace looked enough like a smile, he tried to think of something to say that would convey some sort of magnanimous gratitude without having to use any of the usual words to that effect. His relief was making him feel all kinds of newness and possibility, but there was no need to forget himself entirely. Potter, predictably and heroically, saved him the trouble.

“Hermione did this, Malfoy,” Potter said lowly, his tone fervent but benign. “You would do well to remember you owe her one. Hell, we all do, but you most of all, and you will from now on.”

People were starting to gather, excited at the sight of these two together, and about what might be happening, and what it must mean as they were frozen in this tableau, hands clasped. Draco rolled his shoulder and wished for them to all get lives.

“I won’t be able to forget it, Potter.” He squeezed the hand one more time and let go. “But I know I’ll try my best to.”

 

 **MAY 2, 1998**

God, she wanted her mum. Her nerves were as raw as her skin, as brittle as her nails, as tangled as her hair. After a year in the wild, she was done with fighting, with fear, with bravery, and with sorrow.

As she lifted her eyes from the sight of Molly kneeling next to a lifeless Fred, brushing her fingers through his hair and whispering things only a mother could guess, Hermione reached the end of herself. She felt like she’d break into a million pieces and float off in the breeze if she had to take in any more of the heartache that surrounded her.

 _No more._

So, as she turned toward the scuffle and shriek across the Great Hall, it was with exquisite calm that she knew what she would do.

Lucius Malfoy was magically bound and being led away with an Auror to either side of him, a much more tired sneer than usual on his face. The attention of the room, however, was on his wife, as Narcissa wept loudly and clung to a stoic Draco. Hermione had always found it so poignant to see a woman with her grown son towering above her; the little boy becoming the comforter and protector to the mother who had for so long been his own. This was the picture now, as Malfoy attempted to calm his wailing mother while trying also to peel her off of him as a particularly burly Auror tried to get him in position for binding.

 _No more._

Hermione had a flash of memory – a face and a name in a hallway at Grimmauld Place – and started toward them. “Barrett,” she called out, “hang on there.”

All three were startled enough by her intrusion to freeze on the spot, their heads swiveling around. Malfoy narrowed his eyes as Hermione leveled a steadying look to him, but he didn’t seem to absorb it through his exhaustion. She turned her full attention to Barrett.

“He’s cleared. He’s not going with the others.” _A minimum of information is key to passing off a lie; have the facts at your disposal for follow-up, but keep it simple until it’s necessary. Use clear, concise statements._

“Cleared... I didn’t hear anything about that,” Barrett said, his annoyance plain.

She shrugged. “It’s not being broadcast. None of the students associated with the Death Eaters are being taken from Hogwarts.” _Don’t be too ingratiating and always maintain eye contact_.

Barrett raised an eyebrow. “ _Associated_? Look, Miss Granger, orders are anyone with a Mark, and we’ve processed all the others—”

“Here, check with McGonagall.” _Don’t argue, but keep control of the conversation_.

Hermione scanned the hall and easily found her, a little worse for the battle but as stiffly upright as ever, talking with a devastated Andromeda Tonks. _No more._ She caught the professor’s eye and gestured for her. As the Headmistress took in the scene, her expression went quickly from curiosity, to understanding, to determination as she crossed to them. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw that Narcissa, who had ceased her wailing, was now looking at her positively gobsmacked.

“Headmistress, I’ve been explaining the special situation presented by Malfoy... how, as a current student at Hogwarts, Kingsley had approved that he stay—” _Worry about explaining to Kingsley later_.

McGonagall caught on more quickly than even Hermione could have hoped. “That’s correct, Mr. Barrett,” she said in that clipped tone that was death to any argument. “I am not permitting Mr. Malfoy off the grounds. He is to remain in my care.”

Hermione let out her relief in a long, silent breath, gladly relinquishing this to the older woman’s skill.

What followed was a back-and-forth between McGonagall and Barrett; a tussle for which the latter was woefully overmatched. For each time he tried to use the term ‘Death Eater’ she countered with both ‘student’ and ‘child,’ and peppered in a fair few references to her title of Headmistress just for good measure. Recitations of the Hogwarts Charter and School Code and an evocation of Dumbledore and his promotion of community in the wizarding world brought a tear to Hermione’s eye. In the end, Barrett removed all holds and restraints from Malfoy’s person and left with all the slumped-shouldered presence of a chastised second-year.

McGonagall gave her a pointed yet pleased look. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Granger.” Turning, she said sternly, “I trust you have no objections to helping with the cleanup and repair of the castle, Mr Malfoy?”

When the question was met with silence, Hermione turned to Malfoy to see him fixing her with an expression she’d never before seen on him. It was as though she was the most astounding thing he’d ever encountered, but the very notion of it disturbed him to no end. She found herself staring back with equal interest.

“Mr Malfoy!”

Malfoy’s startle was weary and about two seconds too late as he jerked his head around. “Yes, Ma’am. I’d...” He looked helplessly at his mother, who had taken his arm with both hands and didn’t look to be ready to let go any time soon. Narcissa was looking at Hermione, her mouth trying to form words she’d probably never before had occasion to use.

“Mrs Malfoy,” McGonagall said kindly, “as I just finished saying, Headmaster Dumbledore believed that Hogwarts, as the center of our world, should always be available to those who have need of it. There are a number of empty staff quarters which would likely suit you quite nicely.”

Hermione got her first good look at Narcissa as she stood stripped of all presence and pretense. She was suddenly reminded that the woman’s maiden name was ‘Black,’ as she could clearly see Sirius in both the angles of her face and the expression of despair. A flood of sentimentality, both affection and regret, washed over her, and she felt a kinship with both mother and son: Sirius’ family.

Sirius had once told her that you never could tell where a Black’s loyalties may lie; their appearances were sometimes deceiving. Hermione had figured much the same for Slytherins in general, and she’d realized that they were more loyal to _people_ than to ideals. If you could figure out for whom they cared the most, then you’d have one of your best chances at predicting their next move. She was a big enough person to recognize when she had misjudged, and she’d had to revise her preconceived notions of both Snape and the Malfoys quite a bit.

“I’ll assume that your dormitory will be suitable quarters to you for your stay, Mr Malfoy?” McGonagall waited only for his cursory nod. “Then I suggest that Miss Granger escort you back to it, so that we can be sure that no others become confused about where you’re staying. Mrs Malfoy, if you’ll follow me.”

Narcissa reached up and almost desperately flung her arm about the back of Malfoy’s neck, and he bent down to allow her embrace. She pulled back and held his face in her hands for a long moment, the emotion in that one look was one only a mother could guess. With a nod and a small but sincere smile at Hermione, she followed the Headmistress out.

And that was that.

Hermione was relieved that their exit put an end to Narcissa’s attempts at a thank you. She didn’t do anything for her really, not _for_ her, and she didn’t really want it to be mistaken as such. It was for decency, or for her own sanity, maybe, she wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that watching a lot of adults trying to kill and apprehend a bunch of kids could change your feelings about allegiances and sides. After all, if there was one thing kids usually trusted less than each other it was the older generation. Maybe Malfoy had refused to identify them at the manor because he’d recognized more of a common identity with the trio than with the cloaked figures that had surrounded them.

You can want to slaughter someone at Quidditch, but not want them dead. You can bitterly oppose an adversary and yet refuse to be the instrument of their defeat. Hermione could despise the little boy who had whinged and railed over a Hippogriff, but not want him spending even one night in the cold of Azkaban.

She was more than happy to leave the hall and gestured for Malfoy to follow. It wasn’t until she reached the stairs down to the dungeon that it occurred to her to check that he was in fact behind her. He looked like she felt; as though he had never thought about what it would actually be like for it to all be over.

He caught up to her as she paused at the large vault-like door to the Slytherin dorms. Trying to think of something to say, she stood dumbly while Malfoy muttered the password under his breath and walked through. As he continued with purpose through the common room, she decided to follow. Just inside she paused, starting to deflate from the rush of this last adventure.

“Why did you do that?” Malfoy stood in an open doorway facing her, his voice gruff and challenging.

She turned toward him from the examination she’d been making of the room. She’d never been in the Slytherin quarters before.

“What were you trying to accomplish? It’s not...” He shook his head, hands flying to the collar of his robes as though they were suddenly choking him, fingers furiously unbuttoning, reaching in and digging into the knot of his tie. He pulled it from around his neck and busied himself with wrapping it about his hand, repeatedly smoothing and straightening it. She was mesmerized by the sight. “It’s not going to make any difference, you know.” Still focused on his tie, head bowed, his voice sounded smaller.

“How can you know what will make a difference?”

He looked up, anger coloring the exhaustion. Throwing the tie into the darkness beyond the open door, he raked his fingers roughly over his scalp and leaned heavily on the doorframe, arms hugging himself. “Wasn’t that what all of this was about? Fate, and prophecy, and all that rot... and _inevitability_. Yet you think your little con games and worthless gestures are going to change things?” His laugh was hollow as he shook his head. “Don’t pretend that there’s any way out of what’s coming to me.”

Hermione sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Inevitable is just what people call things when they can’t see the trail that led there. Think about it; your wand brought down a tyrant today, Malfoy. How could you have foreseen the way to that?”

He stiffened and gave a hard look, nostrils flared. “I wasn’t the one behind it.”

“Are you sure about that, Malfoy?” Her imperious tone brought a scowl to his face, so she softened it. “If we learned anything in the past year, it’s that there is no inevitable. A billion decisions and wins and losses go into everything that happens. Who’s to know what action will set off a sequence of events that rush you toward a supposed destiny? Who can know what will push you further from your course? You can’t say where you’re going any more than you could see what your part was in getting here.”

She was struck with a barrage of memories then; emotions and images she’d been storing in a dark corner of her mind, keeping for later when she had more time. It was always _later_ , when she had more _time_.

Malfoy was looking at her steadily, and she saw his face open and without malice for the first time. She realized with a start that she’d never before been alone with him and wondered that it didn’t feel strange. It felt fresh and new, but she knew it was time now to go. She turned to leave, hesitating a moment before turning back.

“No _one_ thing anyone does is really insignificant, Malfoy. It seems like big things drive wars, and build nations, and pull people apart, and draw them together... but life is _lived_ in the little things. Those are all that really matter.”

 

 **MAY 2, 2001**

She was a funny bird, once you got past the toxic cloud of perfume. (The trick, he’d discovered, was to take shallow breaths until you’d properly acclimated.) It was easy to keep a good distance from her tonight, though, since the voluminous skirt of her dress created quite a nice perimeter. Draco had also had a fair few flutes of champagne and very few hors d’oeuvres, so he was finding himself easily amused. Adding to that how little he desired to mingle, and the Honorable Lady Keddle, of the Keddles of Queerditch Marsh, made a most delightful companion.

Having gotten there early, he was hoping that he could just make a showing and be done with it by the time the speeches began. He’d been looking forward to seeing Hermione though, and was disappointed not to have spotted her by now. Draco knew there was no way that one third of the trio would be absent from the Third Annual Morbid Veneration of Death and Dying (as he’d termed it) and had counted on her as a sort of ally in the room. It wasn’t looking like he’d need one though; all had greeted him with civility, if colored by a little suspicion here and there.

He wore no apologies on his sleeve, but he was ready to move forward, to transcend his past. Draco finally felt like he was on his way to becoming the man he wanted to be.

“Draco, dear, I had the loveliest conversation with your mother last week. She was wearing this baby blue gown that was such a beautiful compliment to her skin, and your father was in the most scrumptious royal blue frockcoat. Such a stunning pair when they took to the dance floor!”

Draco hadn’t heard that they were holding cotillions at Azkaban, but he supposed stranger things had happened. He’d tried to get Lady Keddle talking business, to see if she would slip into lucidity long enough for him to pump her for tips on an investment he was considering, but he was having no such luck. He’d decided, after a time, to just keep himself entertained; it didn’t matter what you responded with to keep her going.

“Well, Father has always enjoyed a good dance. Mum took him to one under the lake the other day, and he had a very good foxtrot with the Giant Squid.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Now, Draco, darling, don’t you try to change the subject on me! Your parents were quite in a snit about you, and I said I’d help.”

“A snit, were they? Not about the geraniums again, I hope?” he said, taking a languid sip from his flute.

“Oh! Geraniums are so lovely for a croquet court, but don’t get me started on that.” She grabbed his hand (mercifully, not the one holding the champagne) with a surprisingly strong grip and started to look about the room. “I’ve thought of the most perfect... ah, there she is.”

Lady Keddle yanked him behind her as she took off at a quick pace through the thick of the crowd. She spoke over her shoulder, not having to worry about where she was going, as her scent and skirt caused people to afford her a wide berth.

“Your mother is particularly worried about you settling down, Draco, sweetling. Your father of course wants your happiness, but it’s really weighing on your poor mum. I told her that I had the most keen eye for matchmaking this world had ever seen, and that really put her mind at ease.”

Draco was a bit taken aback by that pronouncement, as it could have been another sliver of sanity from the Lady. His mother had indeed been harping on him for his lack of companionship; which he found rather irking, since she’d complained of his being gone so much when he’d _had_ it. She had been speaking about grandchildren and legacies in lofty, flowery language and had taken to pointedly remarking on his age in comparison to her own when she’d gotten engaged.

None of this was surprising, considering the general attitudes of pure-bloods toward their heirs. But what was a shock was when she talked of changing times and shifting perspectives and spoke vaguely about strength from mixing with those of a ‘different kind.’ His mother had asked him only once about the end of his relationship and had respected that he hadn’t wanted to speak of it, but it seemed that she’d understood what Hermione had meant to him, even through his silence.

Stumbling along behind Lady Keddle, he couldn’t see where they were going due to her considerable girth, so he was taken off-guard when he was knocked into both Potter and Weasley as he was dragged between them. He pulled up short when she stopped abruptly, and his face made contact with the pungent taffeta between her shoulder blades. He pulled back with a cough as Keddle whipped around.

“Stand up straight, duckling,” she whispered harshly before turning grandly, arm outstretched to reveal the person behind her. “May I present to you, Honorable Draco Malfoy of the Malfoys of Wiltshire, the Distinguished Hermione Granger of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry for Magic of Great Britain.”

Hermione stood wide-eyed, clad in an elegant periwinkle blue silk gown, her hair down but tied back loosely with a blue ribbon, curls falling forward over her bare shoulders. Draco brushed his hand through his own hair and cursed his undignified entrance, hoping he didn’t appear as disheveled as he felt. She looked bloody brilliant and was giving Lady Keddle some sort of greeting which he couldn’t quite hear over the rushing in his ears. His mouth went completely dry when she turned to him.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Malfoy,” she said. She extended her hand, a gentle smile on her lips.

Even the anticipation of meeting her here hadn’t prepared him for having her standing in front of him. He hadn’t seen her in months, but it was as warm and inviting in her presence as he remembered, like the gentle spring sun after months of hard winter. Suddenly the thought of just telling her how much he had missed her, as he’d planned, seemed trite and woefully inadequate.

He swallowed thickly and took her hand, bending to kiss it. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Granger.”

“Oh, there’s Mr Peasegood. He’s promised to help with the infestation of Tebos I’ve discovered in the front garden. As you know, they’re quite difficult to control once they get themselves nested...” Lady Keddle walked off without farewell, still talking as she went.

Draco could see out of the corner of his eye that his mad dash across the room with the Lady had caused quite a stir. He and Hermione were being discreetly observed by the majority of the ballroom, including Potter and Weasley, though they seemed stoically neutral on the matter.

Long moments passed before he realized the two of them were frozen, her hand still in his. A flash went off to his right and he jumped, turning to see one of the photographers from _The Prophet_ hurrying away with a chipper wave.

As Draco scowled after him, Hermione chuckled. “I take it this is your first time at the gala, Mr Malfoy?” Her mild smile belied the challenge of her raised eyebrow. Indeed? Well, he could play it that way.

“Yes,” he said, blinking at the spots floating in his vision, “I hadn’t seen the point in coming before now.”

“Oh? And what brought you tonight? Are you part of Gringotts’ presentation on new security measures?” She blushed, an obvious tell that she had been following his work over the past six months, and his heart leapt at the implication.

He looked away, anxious about what he was going to say, not knowing exactly how to start. Because even though he needed to make an appearance for work, that was not the main reason why he was there. There was more to it than that, and he owed Hermione an explanation.

Looking down to where his hand held hers, he began, “I was hoping to start over... or to see if I might. If I could get to know people in a different way, if then I might _be_ someone different... or I could try to be, anyway.” Merlin, he sounded like an idiot.

“I know what you mean,” she breathed. “Is this with... anyone in particular?”

He forced himself to meet her eyes, finding gentle encouragement there. The hope he saw there too, mixed with not a little fear of her own, gave him the courage to go on. He took a deep breath and nodded. “I’ve... there’s someone I’ve missed. See, I thought I had to do without. I thought I had to go it alone in order to be strong, and I wanted to be strong for her. I—”

“People can sometimes do awfully stupid things with the best of intentions.” Her expression was nearly apologetic, and he was suddenly overwhelmed.

“No, I... You—“He shook his head in frustration. “She deserved more than I gave her.”

She was looking at him intently, breathing deeply, her eyes bright. His heart was pounding, but he anchored himself in her gaze. He knew that this was cowardly, trying to talk like this, without really talking _to_ her, but he wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Hermione was the kindest person he’d ever known though, and he knew she could take pity on even him. He hoped she would be generous enough to accept what little he had to offer. While he was struggling to go on, she spoke again.

“Well, this is a great place to meet new people,” she said, purposefully light. “And, I don’t know who this girl is, but you’re making a good first impression on me.”

He exhaled a surprised laugh. Hermione Granger had once again swooped in on one of her rescue missions. This time, he was gracious enough to appreciate it and accept it gratefully as the lifeline it was.

He dipped his head and said lowly, “Well, to be fair, I think first impressions could be a bit distorted tonight, what with everyone in formal dress and on their best behavior.”

She laughed outright at that and said, “Think of it as leveling the playing field, Mr Malfoy. Everyone deserves the chance to put their best foot forward... to have a new start.” She paused, looking down for a moment, and when she raised her eyes again, her look was determined. “ _Everyone_ needs one, every once in awhile.”

Draco had no idea how any part of him had ever felt that he could live without this woman. Feeling a kind of buzzing excitement he hadn’t felt in forever, he said, “You know, I’ve heard that this thing can really drag on and that it’s best to just cut out early.”

Her eyes twinkled as she gave an abrupt nod. “I’ve heard that very same thing. Fancy a bite to eat?”

He nodded and smiled fully. Pulling the hand still in his to wrap about his arm, he turned them away from the majority of onlookers. “Indeed. There’s a new Italian place by Fortescue’s I’ve been wanting to try.”

At the mention of the restaurant, Hermione seemed to remember where they were, noticing the audience they had attracted, and her cheeks flushed impossibly red as she looked around. About half of the spectators had moved on to other things once they realized that a scene was not forthcoming from the two famous former enemies, but there were a fair few who still watched with interest.

Looking uncertainly back at Draco, she said, “So it’s alright if we...” At his steady look, she took a deep breath. “Diagon Alley it is, then?”

Draco had learned in the past three years how to hope; it was the woman at his side who had taught him. He felt it blooming in his heart now, but he was not naive.

He and Hermione could grow and change and work and strive, but he would always be more closed off than she wanted him to be. She would forever stumble into offering her help where it was unwanted. He would walk away from their problems, and she would misinterpret his feelings and jump to conclusions. They would fight and make up and fight again. Who they were, at the most basic level, would never really change. The challenge would always be in how willing they were to accept each other’s limitations.

But every relationship started with the possibility of being new, with a chance to be something more with the other person than you were without them. That promise was always worth the risk.

Draco dropped her arm and placed his hand on her lower back. Gesturing grandly toward the exit, he said, “After you.”

He ushered her ahead through the crowd, ignoring the way it parted before them as well as the waves of whispers that enfolded them. As he followed her out of the hall, his fingers stretched forward and grasped one end of the ribbon in Hermione’s hair. With a tug, he pulled it free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **REQUEST:**  
>  **Preferred rating:** NC-17  
>  **Describe what you'd like in as few words/keywords as possible:** Action/adventure, with a side of angst and a realistic slow-burning romance. Time/era-wise, aftermath of Deathly Hallows (so they're still relatively young), EWE.  
>  **Optional: Song, Poem, or Quote (title/original creator):** Skinny Love by Bon Iver.


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